The Avengers Contingency
by Scribe of Worlds
Summary: A careless inventor, faceless assassin, mummer's boy, veteran captain, proud prince and a half giant. A team? There was an idea, called the Avengers Contingency. The idea was to bring together a group of of remarkable people, see if they could become something more. To see if they could work together, to fight the battles that we never could. Beyond the Wall, Evil stirs.
1. Chapter 1

Amongst the howling storm, a horn blasted.

 _One blast for Rangers._

Nikolas looked up from his map, striding to the tent opening. _Rangers? At this hour of the night_? He frowned, blinking against the flurries of snow that cut against his cheeks. Much as he wished to dismiss the call, his years of experience as Lord Commander had grounded into him caution. Nikolas muttered a curse under his breath, reached for his thick fur long coat and marched out into the howling night.

He could hear curses and groans as the campsite was grouchily awoken by the horn, once-agile figures stumbling out of their tents, half asleep. One went to answer the call of nature, but failed to see the tree in his way. Another tripped on the ropes of his tent, fell flat on his bottom, and struggled against the fabric, his sword clattering just out of reach. ' _Behold, the Shield that guards the realms of men',_ Nikolas thought wryly, before barking into the assembling ranks. "Coul! Report!"

Coul, the grizzled head of the scouts, grabbed a torch from the fire, raising a hand over his eyes to block out the snow. "I ain't entirely sure, Lord Commander, it's impossible for us to see anything in this damned snow. My son Philip says he sees men coming though, he has sharper eyes than either of us." He shivered, "By the Seven, it's freezing tonight!"

Nikolas snorted, "I have one eye, Coul, and I see perfectly well out of that." He picked up a firebrand of his own. "Where's Marius?"

Marius Hill, his second in command, was by his side instantly. He looked worried. "Commander, we didn't send any scouts. I'm sure of it." A second horn blast rang through the campsite, confirming his words.

 _Two blasts for Wildlings._

Nikolas nodded grimly, unsheathing his sword. "I was afraid of that. We've found the Wildlings. Or rather, they've found us."

Marius shook his head, drawing his own sword. "How thoughtful of them. After five weeks of raiding empty villages, _now_ they decide to come to us."

Nikolas was already among the Night's Watch. "Form ranks! Pull together! Light the fires! All eyes on the perimeter!" Fires were rekindled, torches lit. The dancing light reflected off the swords and arrows of the men, their faces gaunt and ready for battle.

Marius caught up to his long strides. "Coul's son is on the lookout today. He says they number fewer than ten. There are twenty rangers out here with us, so we should hold them off easily. Maybe even get some-"

His thoughts were cut off by the first figures that came shambling out of the mist. Sure enough, they wore the tattered garbs of a wildling, but as they stepped into the light, Nikolas swore a foul oath. Their eyes were cold, a brilliant shade of blue, their expressions frozen with the pained finality of death. Their movements were jerky, but they were fast, faster than they could ever believe.

 _Three blasts. Three blasts...for Others._

Phillip, ashen faced, brought the horn to his lips with shaking hands, but no sound came out. It didn't matter. They didn't need the third blast to know how much trouble they were in.

Nikolas had rarely felt so cold in his life.

Screams rang through the camp as the two sides made contact. Nikolas thrust a sword straight into the heart of one of the creatures, but the creature pulled it out, completely unfazed, and continued its attacks. Even a dagger buried deep into its chest could not stop the continued jerks of this monstrosity.

Of course, he had heard tales of the Undead _._ Of course. In tales, songs. Even in the Eastern Islands he had heard of the Long Night of Westeros, where the Others had come with their Undead...wights.

He drove it back with a punch, cursing as cold travelled through his glove to his hand. Was its skin literally ice? He desperately fought against the creeping cold seeping into his very being, the soft murmurs that whispered in him to drop his sword for this one fight he couldn't win. Grimly, he stabbed the creature in its neck, yanking as hard as he could. The creature's head tore off from its body, tendons and entrails hanging, and Nikolas allowed himself a small sigh of relief as the creature finally toppled and stilled.

The pale snow was now stained scarlet with blood, the blood of the fallen rangers. The cries of pain were deafening, some beastly, others human. For every wight that was brought down, two or more rangers died with it.

And in the spam of some five heartbeats, only five Rangers, including him, were still standing.

The remaining wight simply looked at them, its cold eyes unreadable.

Growling, Nikolas dashed to the fire and snatched a blazing brand. Crying out his anger, he dashed the brand into the wight's face. A horrible scream tore through the air as it fled into the darkness.

But the ordeal was not over. Not yet.

As the final wight fled, the fire from its body flared for a moment, and Nikolas saw his nightmares came to life. A shadow, _no,_ many shadows, tall, gaunt and hard. Their armor changed color as they walked, patterns running like moonlight on water with every skin was pale as ice, blue glittering stars for eyes, swords of crystal. Their swords had moonlight caught in them, a ghost light playing around its edges. Their horses were dead, their entrails trailing the icy ground. Before the wight's fire died, Nikolas saw ten, twenty, more of the figures.

Their laughter was like ice cracking on a winter's lake, sharp as icicles.

He didn't think the situation could get any worse.

Then one of the bodies on the ground twitched. A ranger, his black cloak shredded and a gaping wound in his chest. He jerked again. Eyes of shining blue snapped open. With mounting horror, Nikolas watched as the fallen rangers all opened ice blue eyes.

"Father save me...Mother preserve me…" Marius gasped.

They rose. Their wounds stopped bleeding. They stared at their former brothers without a hint of recognition, they jerked forward. Movement from all around the woods. More glowing blue eyes seemed to peer from behind every tree.

Nikolas screamed out an order, and the remaining four of his Rangers mounted horse and galloped for their laughter of the Others pursued them, chilling, sharp, taunting. Wind bit his cheeks, his horse cried at the speed. They couldn't afford to stop.

They needed to return to the Wall.

The realm must know.

They were at war. A war with battles no man could hope to fight.

No one was safe.

 **=o=o=o==o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=**

 **Boom! Action XD. Welcome to my newest project, an attempt to completely reinvent the Avengers into Westeros. Characters from the Game of Thrones will show up occasionally, but the main focus of the story will be on Anton Stark, careless, wealthy weaponmaster of Winterfell, Captain Stefan, veteran of Robert's Rebellion and now a Black Brother, Clinton Stone, squire, Asha, Faceless assassin, Thorin, the son of a Lannister lord, and Bruce, a half giant. Interested yet?**

 **I'm really excited about this new project, and already ideas are swirling, haha. I already have story arcs worked out for each member of the team, so writing this will be fun and quick,so don't worry about that. But still, I'm open to suggestions,and if you have an idea I could reasonably fit into their arc, I'll add it and credit you.**

 **P.S. If you like the coverart, I drew it myself coz I couldn't find any pic that suited my story. Realll proud of it, seeing as I usually don't draw.**

 **P.P.S** **For readers still wondering about Help from Another World, I'm around one third of the way done, so stay tuned, haha.**

 **P.P.P.S Nick Fury, Maria and Phil Coulson make their debut here, in case you still haven't figured it out XD.**

 **P - Oh never mind. I'm expanding my collection from just Percy Jackson, so PJcrazy doesn't cut it anymore haha. I'm changing my name to reflect that. Scribe of Worlds is me now :D**

 **So...review?**


	2. The Stark of Winterfell

**Anton**

 **=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=**

Another week to the Wall.

Just another week. He could do this. The nightmares had chased him throughout the long, torturous journey from King's Landing. More than a month of sleepless nights and weary days. He could endure for another week. Every day he asked how long more, and every day the distance grew shorter. And now they were on their final leg.

But.

They had to stop in Winterfell. Winterfell, mighty fortress of stone, final city in the North, ancestral home of the Starks. And one more thing - his ancestral prison.

In the courtyard, back against stone walls, Anton Stark looked around him wearily. The snow froze his toes, the wind howled and the air was sharp and biting. Of course, if he had sat nearer the fire, or even ventured into the Great Hall, he would be fed and given a warm bed. But no. His brother mustn't see him.

Of course they would have stopped in Winterfell. Of course. If he had been a religious man, he would have thought the gods enjoyed playing him. But no. The Starks had always been staunch supporters of the Night's Watch, and any passing Black brother would find a hot meal and a warm bed for the night.

It was also where Ned lived. Perfect Eddard Stark, the Warden of the North. Always self-sacrificing, always noble. Loving towards his wife and family, with only one bastard to his name. Content to freeze his ass up here in the North, repeating their house motto every few seconds, - "Winter is Coming."

What would Ned think of his brother now? A convict? A condemned man?

But fortunately for him, _fortunately,_ Eddard had been too busy. Robert and his brood had descended upon the North. Anton snorted. The King in Winterfell! What an occasion. With any luck, Robb - to take a Stark at random - would even have the chance to taste wine before he was twenty one! Of course, he had drunk his first mug at a much younger age, much - of course- to his wonderful brother's disapproval. And look where it got him.

He sat a little apart from the other prisoners, refusing to sit near the fire. They were an interesting lot. Two rapists and three petty thieves, the usual filth scrounged from King's Landing's dungeons. The Night's Watch took all sorts. More unusual was the golden-haired, heavy-set man that looked remarkably like Robert in his prime, all brawn and pride. Probably a lord of something or other. Either he was joining the Night's Watch out of misplaced idealism, or he had been disgraced. And then there was him. Offhand, he wondered if he was really any different from the usual filth.

Of course not. When Anton Stark did anything, he did it better than anyone else. The same principle obviously applied to him screwing up as well. He doubted anyone else here had committed a more heinous crime than he had.

"Uncle Tony!"

The voice made him look up, furrowing his eyebrows. A sly grin spread across his face as he clasped the hands of the boy . "If it isn't my favorite nephew! Jon Stark!"

Jon snorted. "I would believe that I'm your favorite nephew if I hadn't heard you call Robb, Bran and Rickon that the last time you visited. You even called Arya that."

Anton continued to grin. Despite his official status as 'bastard', he had always insisted on calling Jon a Stark. He believed that Jon was a part of the family, no matter what. The fact that it drove Catelyn mad had nothing to do with it, of course. Jon had long given up correcting him.

He spread his arms guilelessly, a pose he had perfected and found very useful in many situations. "Tonight you're my particular favorite." He snatched a leg of fowl from Jon's plate. "What brings you out on this cold night eh?"

Jon snorted again, gesturing at a very mutilated dummy and a sword buried in the snow beside it.

"Lady Stark thought it might insult the royal family to have a bastard in their midst."

"Ah. She's always like that."

Another figure waddled up to them, a tiny figure holding a steaming goblet of wine. Anton nodded at him. "Dwarfling. How do you find my ancestral homeland then?"

Tyrion smirked. "I've been verifying your tales. It IS true what you say about the Northern girls. How are you, Stark?" He offered him the goblet.

Anton considered the goblet and half-reached for it before pulling his hand back. Tyrion shrugged. "Sorry, a bit insensitive, considering…"

Anton glared at him.

Tyrion wisely dropped the subject and turned to Jon instead, leaving him to brood.

Yes, it was fortunate that only Jon was out this night. He already had his own conscience screaming at him day and night. He didn't need to add Eddard's, or worse, _Catelyn's_ voice to his sleepless nights. The shame of facing his family would hit him even worse. From Jon's reception, he hadn't heard of what he'd done. Not yet. There was no way Ned wouldn't find out, not with half of King's Landing coming to Winterfell. His only hope was that no one knew he was here...yet. He would be gone in the morning.

Tyrion had apparently finished talking with Jon. He slumped down next to Anton. "By all that is holy, it is _freezing_ here _,_ Stark, how do you you Northmen stand it?"

"Winter is coming, all that crap." Anton waved an airy hand. "Why do you think I lived in King's Landing, my frozen friend?"

Tyrion took a long drink. "I'm going to the Wall with you tomorrow."

Anton almost spit out his food with laughter. "What, you, _celibate?"_

Tyrion swatted at him. "I can hardly believe it of you either. No, if I went all the whores from Dorne to Casterly Rock would be a good deal poorer without the two of us. Maybe I just want to stand on the Wall and piss off the edge of the world."

Anton snorted. "I might join you."

Jon looked surprised. "You're going to the Wall, Uncle Tony?"

Anton dipped his head reluctantly. He dearly hoped the boy wasn't going to ask why.

"Take me with you, Uncle Tony." Both their heads jerked up in surprise. Earnestly, Jon continued. "I want to go to the Wall. I want to take the Black."

Anton tried to find his voice. "But, why? You know as well as I the Black is not...something you take lightly!"

"No bastard was ever refused a seat at the wall," Jon said simply. "How else would a bastard win honor and glory?"

"Besides," He started again, faltering. " _You're_ going."

Anton shared a long glance with Tyrion. Tyrion shook his head sadly, mouthing _he doesn't know._ For the first time he realized how large an influence he was on the boy, simply because he had cared for him. Groaning to himself, he put a hand to his head, considering. "Talk to your father first. We'll see. And Jon… don't tell him I was here….yet."

Jon nodded and made to leave, then stopped. "One more thing, Uncle Tony."

"Name it."

"If I go...I want to give something to Arya...something for her to remember me by."

Anton grinned, "Arya, my... _second_ favorite nephew. I see what you mean. If Mikken lets me borrow his forge, _and I'm sure he will_ , I'll have something for her tomorrow."

Jon nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Uncle Tony." He went off into the night.

Tyrion raised the goblet to his lips, then peered into it suspiciously, before setting it down beside him. "Are you still having nightmares?"

 _Running madly. Fire. Screaming._

"Every night."

"I would toast to a long period of atonement for you, but my mug appears to be empty."

"Probably for the best, don't you think?"

Tyrion waved his goblet idly. "Don't impose your restrictions on me, Stark."

A long, companionable silence.

"You'll be missed at King's Landing."

Anton raised an eyebrow. "What, by people other than Chataya's?"

"Oh, I'm sure the market for iron codpieces will suffer as well." A burst of chuckles.

They lay back against the wall again. Anton finished his food. Tyrion read a book he had miraculously produced.

Finally, Tyrion stood, stretching. "Perhaps I should leave, before Jaime, or worse, _Cersei,_ finds me consorting with a known convict."

Anton snorted. "Who me? A good night to you. Try not to get yourself buried by a snowdrift."

He stood and returned to his fellow convicts, who were lodging near the stables for the night. Pulling a soft skin over himself, he surrendered himself to rest.

Screams jerked him awake.

Back against the wall, looking into the dwindling flames, he waited for the dawn.

 **=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o**


End file.
